


The Professor and Mr Holmes

by likingthistoomuch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Molly, Younger Sherlock, wiser molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likingthistoomuch/pseuds/likingthistoomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Au where Molly is older than Sherlock, and a Professor at his uni. dot dot dot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My sincerest thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for betaing this. Also for the title, even though her earlier suggestion seemed more interesting, it got lost in cultural 'no' how....(see what I did there???)...

Molly groaned at the knocking on her office door. It was 5:45pm, on a Friday of a crazy week and she was ready to wrap up and head home. The last thing she needed was any of her students asking for her inputs, or even worse, the Scotland Yard and Inspector Lestrade (though she wouldn’t really mind it being the handsome policeman).

As it turned out, it was neither. It was the student who took none of her classes, but attended all, who seemed to be extremely interested in biology but not enough to enrol for the courses the university offered.

It was Sherlock Holmes, the chemistry honours student, who performed bizarre experiments, sometimes in her lab, and came up with even more bizarre doubts and theories. To be honest, she did find the young man’s observations interesting, but not on a Friday evening.

“Dr Hooper! Glad I could catch you before you left. I just need a moment…something just occurred to me.” The innocent smile reminded her of wolves just before they grabbed their prey. She was certain Sherlock was responsible for the latest batch of grey she found on her head; though in all honesty, she _was_ in her mid 30s.

“Oh come in Sherlock. I noticed the previous two times you came while I was with Prof Brown and Prof Mistry. So what is it this time? What experiment of your’s is going to keep me from having an enjoyable weekend?”

“Oh but Dr Hooper, if only anyone else had the-”

“Ok, cut the crap, come to the point.”

The devilish grin on his face showed exactly how she had walked right into his plans. The boy was a menace, she was surprised she hadn’t heard many complaints from the girls (or boys, if rumours were to be believed) in his year.

It was almost eight as they wrapped up, Molly ensuring the lab was left clean, she just couldn’t deal with Philip “Finch” Anderson’s complaints about students and their irresponsible use of the uni labs.

“Can I drop you off anywhere Dr Hooper? I did keep you waiting after all.”

She was tempted. Not only because Sherlock drove a mighty, gorgeous beast of a Jaguar but she couldn’t wait to reach her flat and just drop down on her sofa, staying there for the entire weekend. But a professor taking a late night ride from her student could start tongues wagging; her plate was already full dealing with snide comments from her fellow professors commenting on her relatively young age.

“Oh, thank you, but the tube is faster. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your weekend plans…just keep away from my labs ok?”

She had turned away before he could protest, praying to Gods above that she remain undisturbed this time. 

* * *

 

Molly didn’t pay much attention to the increased frequency of visits paid by the brilliant chemist-in-learning. Besides the obvious decade wide age gap, she acknowledged that she was a very popular teacher, her courses getting filled in no time and her classes always well attended. She loved teaching, firmly believing that the field of pathology was indeed an art that needed to be honed, with clues to be deciphered and answers to be dug out. She taught with an enthusiasm that some found misplaced in the morgue, but she put on her smile and carried on. It was her enthusiasm after all that helped Scotland Yard on cases when their in-house pathologists fell short.

It was during one such instant, when she had been discussing what seemed to be a dead end with Lestrade that she caught Sherlock loitering outside the lab doors, obviously eavesdropping. If he looked a little peaked, she attributed it to late night partying. Before she could pull him up for his actions, he rapidly started firing questions at Lestrade.

“Oi, who are you and where are all these questions coming from?”

“Oh come on, detective. I heard what you were discussing; it’s obvious that you are missing the point and looking in the wrong direction.” Saying which he gave the inspector pointers on where and how to investigate more, resulting in the criminal’s identification.

He sauntered (yes that was the apt word to be used) out of the labs, a smug smile on his face.

“Who the hell was that?”

“That is Sherlock Holmes…yes that’s his real name. A brilliant student of mine…well actually he doesn’t take any of my courses but attends all lectures. And does weird experiments.” She sighed, looking in the direction in which Sherlock departed, before turning to Lestrade. “He does make sense. We are stuck here, what’s the harm in checking out what he said? We’ve nothing to lose.”

As it turned out, Sherlock was right. Eerily spot on. Right up to the method and the motivation behind the crime.

“Congratulations Sherlock. Inspector Lestrade was very impressed; the suspect is now behind bars. That was fantastic; you should be working with Scotland Yard, instead of getting this Chemistry degree. Or is that your hidden ambition anyway, noting how I find you more in the path labs than in chemistry?”

The tips of his ears actually turned pink as he mumbled something under his breath and took his leave. Molly chuckled and shook her head; the more brilliant they came, the funnier they were.

“He has a crush on you, Molly,” Lestrade teased. “His face lights up whenever he sees you…and scowls if I’m with you.”

“Eesh…That’s because I encourage him Greg, something I wished others did too. Brilliance is a fire that needs to be fanned in the right direction. I have a very sneaky doubt that Sherlock is right now walking a very thin line; a nudge in the right direction is what he needs, else that mind of his will devour him.”

Truer words were never uttered, Greg thought. As fate would have it, during a raid on a doss house a few months later, he stumbled across a Sherlock drugged and lost completely out of his mind. It was only his past experience with the brilliant student and his respect for Molly Hooper that Greg immediately contacted his family, instead of putting Sherlock’s name on record.

The guilty student had the decency to look slight sheepish when he visited Molly’s lab a fortnight later, though he did try and put up an unaffected front.

“I can’t let you around these chemicals Sherlock, if I can’t guarantee that you are not in control of all your faculties!”

He had profusely apologised, accepting that it had been his first relapse (which meant he had been in rehab, Molly realised…her instinct had been spot on) and promised to continue therapy.

And he kept up his side of the bargain, working on his experiments in her labs, getting exceptional grades in his course and helping Greg here and there. Things were running smoothly, which turned out to be the calm before a storm that hit at the beginning of his last semester.

 

Molly loved her job; the university offered her great opportunities to extend her knowledge whereas Scotland Yard cases kept her abreast of its practical implementation.

But she felt adrift, a bit unsatisfied with how things were. A chance meeting with the visiting emeritus of Harvard gave her a view into the path breaking work they were doing with DNA testing and forensic science. It was an evolving field, with new discoveries and inventions made regularly. She knew what she wanted to do, and somehow managed to get into a programme Harvard offered without too much hassle.

Her students weren’t thrilled to know their favourite professor was leaving but Sherlock’s reaction she wouldn’t have guessed for all she knew him.

“Why would you need to travel that far? It’s not like they hide these discoveries, sooner or later we all follow those procedures.” His tone was brusque; he looked most shaken of them all. “What says that you will be happy to return at the end of the year?”

“Listen, Sherlock, I too need update my knowledge. And not all things can be taught remotely, you know that. Besides, you graduate at the end of this semester; it’s not like I am one of _your_ professors. I will ensure or rather try my best to ensure that my successor helps you out-”

“But it won’t be _you,_ ” he cut in, trying his best to keep desperation out of his voice.

Molly frowned. She knew he would take this hard, but hadn’t expected the scene to turn this…emotional. She then noticed that the undercurrents in that room had changed; it no longer felt like it was a student and a teacher. For the first time, she gave weightage to Greg’s words, and it made her… _uncomfortable_ , almost nervous.

For Sherlock’s gaze had changed, it had become…personal, to say the least. She coughed, trying to get back in control of the situation but Sherlock’s personality was not one to be easily overpowered. Yet, she tried again.

“Listen, Sherlock, every teacher needs to become a student again in order to improve…to become a _better_ teacher. It’s something we all have to do. It’s just that the only place I feel fits my requirements is across the pond. And come on, this is the age of the internet. You can always contact me for _anything_ you need, without hesitation, anytime. It’s not as if you follow the schedule…bit late to form new habits, eh?”

Her attempt to lighten the air failed as he just stood there, arms folded, his eyes staring at her as if he was reading her entire story…till he moved and approached her, standing just a tad short of her personal space. It took all her resolve not to fidget or back away, something telling her he would just corner her.

It no longer felt like an interaction between her and a student; it was suddenly Molly Hooper, a woman and Sherlock Holmes, a young man his gaze turning personal, possessive, almost like a caress.

“But that’s not enough for me.”

His voice had dropped an octave, a slight frown between his brows, like he too was confused the way things had taken a turn.

She blinked, the air in her office suddenly feeling warm. She could almost feel the heat in his gaze as it caressed her face. She took a deep breath, trying again to gain control.

“Well then…what do you need, Sherlock?”

“You.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Lilsherlockian1975 for the beta work. Thanks to her, this reads in English now. And I finished a two chapter story in two (pats self.....)

It was seven years before Molly officially returned back to English shores. The year-long break had been extended for a teaching offer and then still further research. In the midst of all this there was also the engagement to Tom. Everything was looking good but she felt restless, with her job _and_ her personal life. Tom was almost as relieved as she was when she returned the ring. And it proved to be a wise decision as one fine rainy morning, gripped in a bout of homesickness that refused to go away, she made the decision to return back. And though her old uni was ready to welcome her back with open arms, she had made the transition mid-term and had at least few months to explore other openings.

Which found her at Barts, weighing her options for an opening they had, something that was keenly supported by Greg. “That would be amazing Molly. Just like old days, turning up to eat your brains about some weird thing…but without the bloody commute. Though I should warn you that you’d have to work with your old student again. Barts is like Sherlock Holmes’ second home and he treats the lab staff and morgue assistants like his personal employees…the git.”

“Ah! Glad to know some things remain unchanged.” She was only surprised was to know how _unsurprised_ she was to hear that.

“Oh, if you thought he was manageable during uni, he has turned right into a pompous arse now. Thank God for John Watson.”

Their first meeting went as well as she could’ve expected. She was being shown around the place by Dr Stamford when they were interrupted by the detective’s dramatic entrance. He was staring at his phone and speaking out loud to his colleague, his coat floating around him like a cape. It took him a moment to realise he had company. And he did a double take when he noticed Molly.

“Molly!” He blinked before clearing his throat and approaching them. “Er, Dr Hooper, this is a surprise. I assumed you were still in the US…”

“Molly is just fine; you’re no longer a student. And we all err sometime. I moved back two weeks ago,” she responded with a smile, noticing how he visibly bristled when she called him out on his mistake. 

Ignoring her smile, he turned to the man next to him. “This is Dr John Watson, my colleague. John, this is Dr Molly Hooper, you could call her a dedicated career woman, was one of the youngest professors at my university.” He turned to face her, holding her firmly in his gaze. “Went abroad on a research scholarship for a year and stayed back for further opportunities. A failed engagement in the process, fiancé was a fellow researcher; guess he couldn’t handle the accolades that came your way. The emotional support gone, research levels plateauing and next generation entering the foray took the shine off the job. Hence the sudden fondness for old shores and the return home. But the teaching job againg? Too stuffy. Hence, London and Barts. Not exactly a startlingly surprising choice, Dr Hooper."  
  
There was silence as both John and Greg threw daggers at Sherlock. What they didn’t expect was for Molly to nod her head. "Missed a few things, but overall spot on. Except I haven’t yet accepted the offer, this was more of a tour, wasn’t it Mike? And Tom wasn’t envious in the least, maybe it would've worked if he was. I returned ‘coz I was bored. You should know all about _that_ , Sherlock. And…you just read out my Twitter.” There was an amused twinkle in her eyes now.

John Watson walked up to shake her hands saying, “Welcome Dr Hooper. I really hope you take up Mike’s offer, I have a feeling we’ll get along very well.” He then turned to give Sherlock a look, which the detective ignored and promptly left the room.

And thus re-started her association with the brilliant then-student, now-Consulting Detective.

Molly enjoyed the challenges of teaching forensic pathology to newer faces as well as working with the veterans at NSY. The body count was high, the crimes varied and the lab work extensive. She also got the chance to experience on field data collection, sometimes being called out to different crime scenes. Then there was Sherlock. When he wasn’t helping Greg with his cases or working on his own private ones, he used the labs. Molly helped him with his experiments, taking care of samples but drew the line at cleaning up after him. “I left that boat a long way back,” she scolded.

He gradually eased up from his earlier uptight attitude, settling into a demanding yet comparatively respectful give and take with her. The other pathologists soon heaved a sigh of relief, Molly being the only person Sherlock consulted. She didn’t encourage this extreme fidelity as the work load got very heavy at times. And then there were the few times when he openly disparaged the doctors who showed remote interest in her beyond professional commitments.

“Just being helpful… these men, don’t hold them to very high standards do you?”

“Lucky for you, Sherlock, why else would I be spending my free evening with _you_?” she snapped back.

His eyes had widened, he opened his mouth as if to protest, but decided to keep his silence. He had left the lab some time later, looking affronted. But for once, she decided not to feel sorry for him; she did not take kindly to comments about her personal life, though she agreed with him in private. The dates she met seemed to be drawn from the same pool of highly qualified, smart but awe-inspiringly boring men.

Till she met the new IT technician, working with the software giant upgrading Barts’ central network systems. Jim was younger, charming and interesting. She knew he was flattering her but couldn’t help blush at his words. The few times they went out for a drink after work, she really had a great time. Till he decided to visit her in the lab at the same time Sherlock was present.

“Gay! Seriously? That’s low even for you.”

“What do you mean by that? And he’s not gay Sherlock, trust me on _that_.” He blinked a few times at her loaded statement, before clearing his throat and carrying on.

“I thought younger men weren’t your thing. Besides, he just left me his number… doesn’t bode too well for your drinks date, Dr Hooper.” He now called her ‘Dr Hooper’ either when he was very irritated or in a diametrically opposite good mood. She couldn’t deduce which one it was this time.

But she stopped seeing Jim after that, which was easy as Jim himself seemed to have vanished. Also an increase in workload around the holidays, accompanied by a few of Sherlock’s cases kept her distracted. Till she came to know that sweet Jim from IT was in fact Jim Moriarty, a notorious psychopath out to get Sherlock. She didn’t have the details but gained from conversation with Greg that Sherlock and John had a close call because of him. The next few nights, Molly had a tough time sleeping well; murderous psychopaths would do that to anyone. Until Sherlock assured her by text that she need not worry, Jim didn’t hold her important enough to trouble her. Immensely relieved (albeit, also mildly insulted) by his message, that was the last they spoke about Jim. But she also started to worry about Sherlock; was he truly aware of the risks he was taking? The class of criminal he seemed to engage was getting higher and more influential, and it just wasn’t in his DNA to be careful. 

Her fears were confirmed late one night, when she was skyping with an old colleague from Harvard and hadn’t realised how late it was. As she was leaving the lab, she was startled by Sherlock who seemed to be waiting in the dark, a sombre air around him.

“Molly,” he said, turning to look at her. It was that quiet tone accompanied by what could only be described as a haunted look that made her realise that things were really bad, he was truly affected and he needed her help. She didn’t second guess him, didn’t try to offer dry words of support but got right down to business.

“What do you need?”

She knew just the right snippets to draw from the huge landscape of experience she’d gained over the years. They kept the subterfuge as low as possible, resulting in maximum impact and leaving just enough gaps for Sherlock to escape. It felt almost like déjà vu; the difference being it was _him_ who was departing this time. But unlike her, he was leaving behind destruction of the worst type, a devastating emotional wreckage of his three most vocal and closest supporters.

The Sherlock Molly saw later that night, in a visit that surprised her, was much older than the man she helped escape death hours ago. He was calmer, quieter and focussed. He didn’t speak much, but held her hand just before leaving, his eyes answering all her silent questions and requests. “To further adventures…” he said, but she knew this wasn’t the type of adventure he had volunteered for.

The next two years went by without any news from him. Looking at Greg, and especially John, she sometimes wondered which version of the story was the truth; what they _believed_ or what she _knew_. Time had a weird way of distorting facts, and if she, a professional who worked with facts daily felt this way, one could only guess what the others were going through. But time also healed, in whatever little way, and her friends were no exception.

For Molly, the process seemed to be in reverse. The more time went without any news, the more dread she started feeling. Was he ok? Did he manage to do what he set to do? Was it the light at the end of the tunnel or was it an approaching train? She didn’t ignore the enormity of the fact that God forbid, if some calamity did befall him, she would start grieving when the others had already started their healing process. It would be a very lonely journey indeed. She was approaching her late 40s and _this_ wasn’t the picture she had planned when she decided to return. She ought to be feeling more grounded, more stable; instead she’d never felt this unsettled before.

In the end it all paid off the day Molly opened her locker door and saw a familiar face staring back in the mirror. She hadn’t realised just how much she’d missed him until _there_ he was. She stared back for a moment before grinning widely and hugging him. His response was immediate, his arms holding her close. He was famous for not being very tactile, but her surprise at his reaction was overridden by the sudden calm that settled around her. She would’ve never guessed in her wildest dreams that Sherlock’s arms held such comfort and peace, a fact she studiously tried to ignore when she accompanied him to solve cases a few days later.

“It’s a thank you for all you did for me,” he’d muttered at the end of it.

“Always, Sherlock.” She smiled as she kissed his cheek, her heart skipping a beat. She’d expected him to frown at the intimacy; instead he looked like he was struggling with a decision. But the moment passed when his phone rang, John’s girlfriend on the line. He ran the very next moment, leaving her standing in that hallway; it was for the best, she thought as she travelled home.

But that day spent with him had its effects; she was now more aware of him, actually looking forward to his visits and not only for the break they offered from the general rote. She wanted to see more of him and had assumed he would appreciate it, especially now that John was busy with his new wife, a lovely woman called Mary. Just as Molly had hoped, Mary was someone who took to Sherlock immediately, and vice versa, becoming an important addition in the small coterie of friends he had.

It was the same woman who, along with her husband, brought an obviously high Sherlock to her lab to get tested. Molly was mad at him, of course she was, but her experience had also taught her to pause and re-look things over. For all the times she had seen him in this state, it was never so blatantly obvious, even that night when she had told him of her departure to the States. And her doubts were confirmed when he visited her again late one night before Christmas, just as she was leaving her labs after an online discourse.

 “Sherlock,” was her stunned whisper, hand on her heart.

“This time its deep Molly. Tomorrow I make a deal with the devil himself. I’ve no illusions of escaping unscathed, like the last time. But I need to do this, to keep my vow…” He’d not looked at her once, addressing the floor in front of him. He looked strained, affected…aged. She wished he hadn’t looked at her, ‘cause when he did, she saw raw desperation and fear. “I can’t let him hurt any of you; I _won’t_ let him get to you,” the last part was spit out in rage.

When she approached him, he clung to her; like a man clinging to the raft in a storm he knew could easily swallow him. The previous months had been tough, with Sherlock getting high, then getting shot, his reputation shredded by the tabloids. He’d never visited her alone since, and then too always on an official assignment. He’d been at his most formal, keeping his distance, being utterly polite; he behaved like anything but himself. But this, this terrified her.

Then he disappeared after Christmas. Greg didn’t have any idea of his whereabouts and neither did Mrs Hudson, the Watsons weren’t taking any calls. It was the worst week of her life, till she got a text from Mary.

At Baker Street. – Mary W

She’d dropped what she was doing and rushed to 221B, readying herself for any eventuality. But what she saw was…weird. Sherlock had obviously taken drugs, but instead of anger, there was total empathy on the Watson’s faces. Mary was his most vocal defender, insisting they all support him and help him as he faced his come down from hell. But his eyes almost never left Molly as long as she stayed with him, they weren’t conveying anything, he just simply looked. The next day he’d left for a special clinic his brother had arranged for him.

She daily received a one worded text from him, keeping up his promise to stay in touch.

Bored.

Cold.

Stars.

You.

Helpless.

Aaargh. And so on and so forth. Till around four weeks later, when she was retiring for the night and her phone pinged.

Door.

It took her a moment before she pulled on her dressing gown and rushed to look through her peep hole. She couldn’t get the bolts open fast enough, finally managing to wring the door open for the detective to literally fall in her arms. He held her close, his nose in her hair, standing like that for an unknown amount of time. Until she pulled out of his embrace, shut the door, and taking his hand, guided him to her bedroom, where he hugged her again, whispering in a tired tone, “Why, Molly, why?”

She'd held his face, lines of fatigue staining his ethereal beauty. “Stay with me Sherlock. Just stay with me.”

He’d lain in her arms, falling asleep in no time as she continued to hold him. She had followed him some time later, waking up at dawn. Sherlock was still cuddled next to her, looking more at peace than she’d ever seen him. She wanted to place a kiss on his forehead but instead got up; no use waking him this early.

She made her morning cuppa and stood with the mug in her hand, looking at the small garden in front of her flat. The morning looked fresh, wonderful, like winter was finally ready to pack its bags and leave.

Then her phone pinged, relaying its one worded message.

Home, it said. She frowned, not sure what it meant, till the next one followed.

You.

She teared up at that, leaning against the window again, the tea forgotten. Trust him to use one word to relay so much, to compress all those years, all their life, in three letters.  Then the next text arrived, its three letters holding more promise.

Bed, it said.


	3. Epilogue

Molly turned around at the noise behind her with a big "Oh my God".  
  
Her class had managed to unfurl a banner with a big, colourful "Happy Birthday, may you always be this young" written on it. They all started applauding and whistling as she laughed and bowed to acknowledge their well wishes. If she was embarrassed and hoped normal class would resume immediately, her hopes were dashed when students from the other departments came in too. She knew she was well loved, but this outpouring of wishes was a bit ridiculous.  
  
She tried to put a dampener on the celebrations by insisting the class continue and requested the extra attendees to leave. Even as normal duties resumed, there was a buzz in the class that she couldn’t ignore. She had to indulge in some negotiations with the students before she could proceed.  
  
"So if I answer five personal questions, will you guys quieten down? Yes? Ok, Miss Nadar, Q1."  
  
"Yes, it was in fact my 50th birthday and I celebrated it abroad, in Venice. It was a huge surprise for me, it was lovely."  
  
"No, Miss Oswald, this is not my engagement ring. Next?"  
  
"No, no cancelled or truncated lecture for celebrations. You still have to turn your paper in Mr Cole…by the way, I _will_ consider that as a question." The class groaned collectively, throwing daggers at Cole.  
  
"Ok guys, for the last and _final_ time Greg is a dear friend, no matter what fanfiction you guys cook up, and no, _he_ didn’t arrange the Venice trip either."  
  
"Ok last one… what was that?" Molly actually laughed out loud at the  question. "That’s a good one, HRH The Consulting Dark Prince of St Barts, I actually like that. And no, he didn’t disturb or trouble me at all. Though Miss Stone, I would prefer you address my husband as Dark Lord rather than Dark Prince, suits him better yeah?"  
  
It was a funny moment, as she would describe many times later, when the noise slowly died, there was pin drop silence till her words sank in and then the applause and shouts of congratulations begin.  
  
"Oh God," as Myra Oswald slapped her forehead, "that's a wedding ring!!"


End file.
